


Oath

by elementalv



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Missing Scene for 5X03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-23
Updated: 2010-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementalv/pseuds/elementalv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that Castiel particularly <em>wants</em> to have sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oath

It’s not that Castiel particularly _wants_ to have sex. He’s been witness to every form of fornication possible between two (or more) humans (and other species), he’s had to stop himself from smiting those who richly deserved it (“This isn’t your purpose, Castiel,” he was told. “Watch and learn.”), and he’s despaired over just how wrong sex can make things go. Even as he fights off the grief and hopelessness of his own rebellion, Castiel still wonders on occasion what his Father had been thinking when he’d introduced _that_ innovation for reproduction.

_And gratification_, he grudgingly admits in the all-too lonely silence of his mind. Despite the grimaces they make, as well as the odd noises and utterly nonsensical commentary some are prone to, it’s clear that humans enjoy sex a great deal. Dean alone regularly manages to wring more pleasure out of a simple act of meaningless friction than Castiel ever thought possible. It hasn’t been a problem, though, and it wouldn’t be now, except that Dean, ever impetuous, has sworn an oath to ensure that Castiel won’t die a virgin.

Castiel sighs.

The brothel was a bad idea, and he tried to tell Dean, but Dean wouldn’t hear it, and now they’re driving away without another prospect of a sexual partner for Castiel. He’s fine with that, truly, because for all that humans appear to derive pleasure from it, sex is a very messy act. If Dean were to take Castiel’s wishes into consideration, the failure five miles back wouldn’t be an issue, but Castiel _knows_ Dean. He knows how Dean feels about failure, and given the lack of Sam in his life at present, Castiel knows that Dean is already feeling as though he has made yet another mistake. If Castiel meets that little bastard, Raphael, on the morrow, still personally unaware of the pleasures of the flesh, Dean will castigate himself and continue doing so right up until the end.

Castiel sighs again.

Dean glances over at him. “Look, Cas. Don’t worry. We’ll find another place. It’ll be —”

“A problem, just as the last ‘place’ was,” he mutters, still gnawing over the problem of Dean’s unrealistic expectations of himself. It takes him a moment to realize that was the exact wrong thing to say, because he can all but see the waves of guilt and self-recrimination rolling off Dean. He says quickly, “It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah. Right.” Dean downshifts suddenly to compensate for a drunk driver, and Castiel thinks it’s a measure of how wretched Dean feels that he doesn’t even swear at the woman.

(Her name is Anna Del Gado, age 44, and her husband James, age 53, left her when he caught her in bed with Jane St. George, age 23. Castiel thinks the marriage could have been saved had anyone bothered to teach James that love can only multiply, never divide. Castiel also thinks he has bigger things to worry about than Anna Del Gado, her husband, and her erstwhile lover.)

They pull into the driveway of the abandoned house Dean has taken over, and Castiel realizes he needs to make a positive, decisive move _now_, or else Dean will sink into yet another well of self-loathing for failing to advance Castiel’s sexual experience. A brothel is out of the question, as well as any woman they might meet in a bar. There is, however, another option, one that may avert another crisis in confidence, even if Dean says no.

Before Dean can leave the car, Castiel puts his hand on Dean’s thigh. He hopes he’s calculated the correct distance between knee and groin, and judging by Dean’s stuttered breath, Castiel believes he has succeeded. Speaking quietly, Castiel says, “Prostitutes don’t interest me.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean is staring down at Castiel’s hand, which is gently squeezing Dean’s thigh, and he is having difficulty in speaking. This cheers Castiel immensely. “Maybe — maybe we could go to a bar.”

“Those women will not interest me either,” Castiel says gently. He moves his hand slightly closer to Dean’s groin and squeezes again.

“Um.” Dean stops there, and Castiel moves his hand a bit higher. The shift helps Dean begin speaking again. “What _does_ interest you?”

The question is unexpected. In Castiel’s experience with Dean, Dean should have asked, with some degree of force, that Castiel remove his hand. After all, Dean has very specific ideas about what he calls personal space and Castiel’s invasion thereof. He also has very specific tastes in sexual partners, and Castiel’s vessel (no, his _body_ — _his_ body and no one else’s) does not fit within those parameters by any stretch of the imagination.

Castiel swallows and answers, “You interest me.”

This is the point at which Dean should grab Castiel’s wrist with sufficient force to break it. He should then shove Castiel against the passenger door with much invective and tell Castiel to leave, to never return. Once Castiel has been shoved out of the car, Dean should then peel out of the driveway so that he can assert his masculinity with a willing woman. Castiel knows this as well as he knows the back of the hand that used to belong Jimmy Novak.

(Jimmy is currently haunting the trench coat Claire gave him two Christmases ago. It was the only item of clothing to survive that little bastard Raphael’s smiting of Castiel, and it hangs on the coat tree in Chuck’s front hall. Chuck hasn’t yet realized he has a new housemate, and when he does, he is likely to be even more unhappy with the forces of Heaven than he is at present, which will be a remarkable feat. The trench coat Castiel wears at the moment is a precise replica of the old one, yet it doesn’t feel quite right in the shoulders. Castiel takes a deep breath and reminds himself once again that he has bigger things to worry about — namely, finding God and shutting down the apocalypse. And, when possible, keeping Dean’s spirits up.)

Dean does none of the things Castiel expected. Instead, he lets out a small sound that Castiel classifies as a whimper, and when he grabs Castiel’s hand, it is not to cause injury, but rather to seek reassurance. He looks deep into Castiel’s eyes and says, “You mean that?”

Castiel would like to blink at that, but really, if he makes a wrong move, Dean will be off and running and won’t be able to assist in the capture of that little bastard Raphael. With blinking off the board as a possible reaction, Castiel leans closer and says, “Yes.”

“Christ. You couldn’t have mentioned this earlier?” Dean asks, his voice low and husky. It is at an exact pitch and tone to cause an odd sensation in Castiel’s stomach, and though he wants to understand the fluttery feeling, his attention is fully caught by the feel of Dean’s lips on his own.

It should mean nothing, this pressing of lips and the engagement of their tongues. It is simply mass with pressure, warmth rising between two significant heat sources with a bit of friction and saliva thrown in for good measure, yet even as Castiel attempts to remind himself of that, Dean shifts his head slightly. It makes all the difference in the world, and at once, Castiel feels a wholly unnecessary flush work its way from his waist to his forehead, a flush that triggers a whimper in Castiel’s throat as it continues upward. Dean responds with a deep groan, and as before, the sound of his voice is enough to cause another flutter of Castiel’s abdominal muscles.

Dean pulls away, and Castiel says, “No,” in a voice that shouldn’t be as broken as it sounds.

“Come on. Inside. No need to give the neighbors a show.” Dean opens his door and gets out. Castiel is a bit too distracted to will himself out of the car and instead crawls out the driver’s side to remain as near as possible to Dean and Dean’s lips.

It’s odd how Castiel never before noticed the fullness of Dean’s lips, the perfect bow of the upper lip. Had he but paid attention, Castiel thinks he would have likely written hosannahs in praise of Dean’s lips. The thought distracts him for a moment, because truly, he does have better things to do than honor Dean’s lips in song. At least, he thinks he does. Castiel can’t quite remember what those other things are, and the minute he starts to recall them, Dean, his laughter low and knowing, starts kissing Castiel again.

Unlike their first kiss, this kiss completely derails Castiel’s train of thought. He’s no longer considering the utter dreariness of subjecting himself to fornication. Instead, he’s gathering enough of his wits about him to transport them to the room Dean sleeps in, concerns about constipation and bowel obstructions notwithstanding. In any event, semen acts as a — Dean is removing Castiel’s trench coat and jacket at once.

_This is perhaps the greatest idea any human in the history of the world has had_, Castiel thinks. _Dean is brilliant._

To prove himself worth of Dean’s brilliance, Castiel starts disrobing Dean. This doesn’t work as well as it should. For one thing, Castiel is unused to requiring such fine motor control of his body. For another, because they don’t have perfect communion of thoughts, Castiel is getting in Dean’s way, and Dean is getting in Castiel’s way.

He raises his hand to remove all of their clothing with a thought, but Dean grabs his hand and says, “Don’t even think about it. You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

He does not, which speaks poorly of his powers of observation. But then Castiel understands what Dean has just said, and his stomach feels as though it has just lurched forward and back at Dean’s words. Castiel briefly wonders if perhaps he has bitten off more than he can chew by requesting that Dean attend to his defloration. He thinks that if he’s reacting this strongly to mere words and caresses, he will undoubtedly be completely useless during the act itself.

He would worry about it more, but Dean has chosen that moment to remove Castiel’s tie and open his shirt so he can lick his way down from Castiel’s collarbone to his left nipple. Castiel’s right nipple remains untouched, and the asymmetry of it should bother him far more than it actually does. Instead, he reminds himself that Dean is brilliant and no doubt has a plan for his right nipple.

(Castiel _likes_ plans. He likes being told what to do. He likes knowing there is order in his world attributable to a higher power. His rebellion can’t rightly be called his, because it has its roots in what someone else — Dean — wanted him to do. Castiel’s decision to search for God is actually the first decision he’s ever really made for himself without prompting from another, though he thinks it could be argued that his resurrection post-smiting is a fairly large hint to continue with the rebellion already.)

Dean licks and worries at Castiel’s left nipple for a time just short of eternity, and then he stops. He straightens up, and he looks worried. “Are you sure about this? I mean, come on. Heaven can’t really be on board with two guys fucking, can it?”

If Castiel weren’t so dizzy with the pure _want_ Dean has generated, he might be tempted to smite Dean for stopping, which would be unfortunate; should Castiel smite Dean, he’ll never learn Dean’s plans for his right nipple. So instead of striking Dean down in a fit of angelic rage (or horniness — Castiel isn’t quite sure which), he grabs Dean by the back of the neck and drags him close enough to kiss him. Castiel’s actual experience with kissing is limited to the two minutes they just spent in the car, but he has spent millennia observing humans, Dean in particular, and he has a certain level of empirical knowledge to draw upon. He uses every trick Dean has in his arsenal of sensual maneuvers, and Castiel is gratified when Dean relaxes at once into his embrace.

After a time, Castiel realizes that Dean has managed to finish undressing them both and is shifting them steadily toward the bed. Dean pauses, a question in his eyes, and Castiel gets fairly ruthless in banishing his doubts by way of a well-timed lick of Dean’s left nipple.

From that point on, Castiel truly does lose himself in the moment. The drag of Dean’s penis against Castiel’s stomach is countered by the rasp of Castiel’s stubble against Dean’s jaw. Their moans and imprecations combine to create a song greater than any Castiel has heard in Heaven, and their joined voices resonate deeply within Castiel’s soul. Each new touch, each new caress builds on the ones that came before, and for a time, Castiel finds a communion with Dean that is more magnificent than any he found with the Host or even his old garrison. Dean’s face in the throes of passion no longer looks as odd as it used to. Instead, each contortion is precious to Castiel, and he hopes to the Father that he can remember all of them once this union is complete.

So involved is Castiel in his own reactions to Dean that his climax is almost — well — anticlimactic. He thinks he should have been more aware of his release, more in tune with it, but the truth is that what mattered most was the absolute pleasure of touching and being touched. Castiel thinks he finally understands why humans will kill for this single act.

Dean rolls off Castiel with a muttered, “Fuck me.”

Castiel’s penis is hard with just a thought. He asks eagerly, “May I?”

Dean groans and says, “You just _came_. How the hell can you be ready again?”

“I am an angel of the Lord,” Castiel intones.

Dean grabs a pillow and hits Castiel with it before lying back down. “Sleep first, fucking later.”

In a moment, Dean’s arm is around Castiel’s shoulders, and he’s tugging Castiel close against him. Dean’s skin is warm and sticky and smells of the alcohol he drank earlier. Dean’s armpit smells worse, but it doesn’t bother Castiel, nor does the fact that Dean falls asleep almost immediately. This quiet time he’s been afforded allows Castiel to think about tomorrow’s meeting with that little bastard Raphael. Fornication has cleared Castiel’s mind, and he can predict with certainty that Raphael is unlikely to show up immediately.

While Dean sleeps, Castiel plans ahead and savors the fact that he _can_ plan ahead. This is largely due to Dean, and Castiel sends a prayer of thanks to his Father for bringing both Dean and Castiel back from the dead. Right now, Castiel thinks that with Dean’s help (and Sam’s — something else he needs to discuss with Dean), they will be able to find God and shut Lucifer away again.

With such thoughts in mind, Castiel’s eyes close, and for the first time in his existence, he sleeps.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Oath by Elementalv, a Selective Sampling](https://archiveofourown.org/works/193176) by [kumquatix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kumquatix/pseuds/kumquatix)




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